Of Bishops and Marchionesses
by lythraceae
Summary: There were a number of open secrets at Beacon Hills High. One of them was Stiles Stilinski's 10 year plan for Lydia Martin. Another one was Lydia's relationship with Jackson Whittemore. It was there for show. But the most well known one was that Lydia's protégé (of sorts) was utterly in love with Jackson.
1. Chapter 1: Promotion

Nobody completely sane challenges a queen. And that's who Lydia Martin is. Queen Bee, goddess, certified genius (although very few people knew that). So no one actively pursued Jackson, for fear of retaliation via angry girlfriend. They made eyes at him for sure, but there was no flirting, unintentional or otherwise.

Lydia made sure of that. Her reputation was not going to be ruined by imbeciles throwing themselves at her best friend. She'd trained him well, too; Jackson played the part of asshole-jock easily, just as she was the image-oriented mean girl. She had no use for friends that used her.

Call her petty, but there were more than enough of those so-called "friends" in preschool. All little Lydia wanted were friends to share her stuffed pony with, and instead she got miniature devils who wanted the pretty ribbons that were gifted from her distant parents.

The suck-ups at least learned their lesson… mostly. Let it be heard that Lydia is a manipulative bitch. But more importantly, a genius. Scratch that, no one needs to know her genius. She'll win a Fields Medal first, so she can laugh in the dumbfounded faces of the ones who take her at face value.

* * *

There's a student transferring in to Beacon Hills High, and Lydia wonders if she can get her claws into the new kid, to see if they are worthy of her attention, before they are swept away by the gossip and rumors.

"Hi, question," Lydia is thrown out of her thoughts even as she idly flips through a magazine, waiting for her nail technician. "_How_ do you maintain your hair? I've never touched a curler, straightener, or even a hair dryer, and my supposedly straight hair is as frizzy as can be."

Lydia makes a split second decision to be herself, no masks on. Everyone recognizes her on sight, therefore the speaker must be new. Turns out she might actually be able to sink her talons in. Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder and smiles slightly, "It's all natural, thankfully. I would have no idea how to deal, otherwise."

"_God_, you're lucky, then. I've tried everything—," the poor girl stammers when Lydia finally looks up. "Oh, no, you're pretty— I mean— it's not a bad thing, I swear— Of course it's not— I just—"

Cataloguing the features of the rambling girl, Lydia decides she is worth the time. It's adorable, really. The rapidly increasing in intensity blush, and the way the girl talks is like she's speaking to her idol. The girl's eyes are striking, actual amber eyes, although her brown hair and the lighting make them seem brown.

"I'm Lydia," she says, holding out her hand, taking pity on the girl who looks like she's about to run out of air.

"Cynthia," the girl wheezes out, shaking Lydia's hand firmly.

* * *

Aside from nearly passing out from fear of a pretty girl, Cynthia is remarkably easy-going and nice to talk to. _She's worth friendship, at least_, Lydia thinks. Or at least she thinks so up until they walk out of the salon and she watches Cynthia get into a Jeep.

The Jeep is in impeccable shape, shiny and new, not a single scratch on the bright blue paint job or on the glass. There's obviously nothing wrong with driving a Jeep, but something about Cynthia reminds Lydia of someone. (That someone might be a person she callously ignores because they seem just like the rest of the sheep at school.)

* * *

Maybe-friend Cynthia is the less annoying and much more female version of Stiles Stilinski. Ten-year-plan-Stilinski. In-love-with-Lydia-Stilinski.

What has her life come to?

* * *

This.

Actually having a female friend, having someone to complain to, instead of being the one complained about.

No deep secrets are spilled, of course. If Cynthia can be friends with her for a long enough time, maybe. Or Cynthia will figure some out herself. She's smart enough, and incredibly witty, thank god. The only thing that's missing is a sense of actual fashion, not just jeans, a t-shirt and some (surprisingly nice) shoes.

* * *

"Honestly, I really only go shopping for shoes, you know," says Cynthia. "I've never found a reason to actively look for nice clothing to go with."

Lydia scoffs, "No, I don't know. If I had your shoe collection, my closet would be the greatest one in the country."

"Compared to what it is now? I'm pretty sure your closet could dress at least 500 other people—," teases Cynthia, trying on a pair of chunky burgundy leather ankle boots.

"—and you could provide the shoes for the rest of the world, what's your point?" snipes Lydia as she eyes a pair of black velvet sandal stilettos.

"You should try those on," Cynthia encourages. "If you like them, I may or may not have a pair in my collection you can borrow. We have the same shoe size, right?"

"Five or five and a half depending, yes," murmurs Lydia stooping down to pull the heels on. She purses her lips and looks in a mirror.

* * *

"No."

"I'm sorry, would you care to repeat that?" Lydia hisses, eyes flashing.

"…no?" Cynthia whimpers, sensing the danger and inching away slowly.

"Nothing bad is going to happen, Cynthia!" Lydia snaps exasperatedly. "I just want to style you and let you meet—"

"—that's the _problem_, Lydia—"

"—that's not even a _minor_ issue! Do you _want_ to be accosted by the welcome committee when you get to school on Monday?"

"How does dressing me up even help? I understand meeting your friends, but why can't I meet them like _this_?"

"First of all, it's 'friend', not 'friends', plural. Everyone else is an alliance, an acquaintance at best," starts Lydia. "Secondly, I have an image to maintain. Be grateful I'm talking to you like a plebeian."

"You're the untouchable queen at school, aren't you?" sighs Cynthia resignedly.

"Yes, thank you for noticing."

"_Are you Regina George?_ Does this make me _Cady_? _Please_—"

"—don't be ridiculous—"

"—_thank god_—"

"—I'm making you Gretchen _and_ Karen."


	2. Chapter 2: Desperado

"—heard they were dating—"

"—son and Lydia? _Everyone knows_—"

"—_Cynthia_ and Lydia, dumbass—"

"—no way, I could've sworn—"

"—_three-way_? I didn't think—"

"—hate each other, _idiot_—"

"—Danny's there too, isn't he—"

* * *

The gossip and rumor mills of Beacon Hills High were running rampant with increasingly imaginative scenarios regarding the newfound relationship between the newest resident and resident queen. Lydia Martin was both impressively amused as well as amazingly irritated by this news.

It's not like she was surprised, but it was situations like this that made her want to scream at people at the top of her lungs. Make their ears bleed like they were making hers do. But she had a reputation to maintain. There would be no screeching until she was sure she wasn't coming back.

Lydia sighs at the thought, and nearly slams her face into the dashboard of Jackson's Porsche. He looks at her curiously.

"…You alright there, Lydia?" Cynthia's tentative voice pipes up from the back. "Did you forget we were here? Should we leave?"

Danny snorts, "She never does anything without reason. You'd best remember that."

He runs a hand down the front of his shirt, straightening it absentmindedly, a rare nervous tick. He sighs too.

"Ready to meet the population, then?"

"_God_ no. Could I pretend to be sick? I could go home, right?" Cynthia panics. "I might not even have to pretend. _Help_. Or give me some water. Whatever works—"

"Jesus, here—," Jackson passes a bottle of water to her, "Don't get any on the seats. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I'll _kill_ you if you do. And then I'll make you clean the interior. _With your own damn toothbrush_."

"Oh, great," is her breathless reply. "No pressure, there. _Oh my God_, I'm going to faint. Pass out. Collapse. Can I get out of the very fancy car now?"

"No." Lydia turns around and looks Cynthia right in the eye. "_Listen_—"

Jackson cranks the passenger side window down about another inch, "More fresh air. Good?"

"—Oh, I can listen, yes—"

"—You are _my friend_. _I am not friends with stupid people_. I _will not_ be friends with stupid people, _so cease your whining right now_."

"Right, okay." Cynthia takes a deep breath in and holds it.

Danny stares.

And for ten seconds, the only sound coming from the car is the near inaudible sound of three people breathing.

"You should… breathe. It's good for you."

"Oh, believe me, I know," comes out along with Cynthia's great exhale. "Okay. Ready or not, here I come?"

"_I don't know you_," snarls Lydia. She tosses her hair back and straightens her jacket, opens the car door, takes a breath, and steps out. She pretends to not hear Cynthia fumbling with her bag in the backseat.

Jackson, already standing outside, smirks and murmurs, "You must _tolerate_ her quite a lot—"

She subtly pinches his arm. "Shut _up_."

Cynthia lets out a squeak when she trips over a rock while stumbling out of the car. "_Why_ did I let you put me in a skirt, Lydia? It's cute, yes, and I might have great balance, usually— _Thank you_, Jackson, for not letting me _crack my head open_."

He sets her upright, and Danny smoothly follows her out of the car.

"We'll visit you in the hospital," Danny teases.

"_Let me die in peace_."

Lydia loops their arms together, and marches off with Cynthia in tow towards the office. "Jackson, Danny, you know what to do."

* * *

"—best thing that's happened to this town since— Since the birth of Lydia Martin. Hey, Lydia, you look—"

"_Ignore him_." Lydia hisses under her breath, speeding up ever so slightly when Cynthia tries to turn and manages to catch sight of the boy speaking, but not the person spoken to. (He's… a bit flail-y but he's cute in the way most baby deer are, before half of them turn into bucks with antlers strong enough to do enough damage and spear a body all the way through.)

"Ten-year-plan-Stilinski, I presume?"

"Yes," Lydia answers shortly. "And this is the office."

"I would've never guessed," Cynthia drily comments, taking note of Lydia's discomfort and eyeing a sign denoting the building 'Office'.

* * *

There's another girl standing in the office with a slightly panicked look on her face, and Lydia shoves Cynthia forward, muttering, "_Look, it's your new friend. Talk to her, because I'm leaving you here_."

Lydia spins on her heel, nearly whacks Cynthia with her hair, and struts out of the office.

They can hear Lydia's heels click down the hallway.

There's a bit of an awkward pause before the other girl can't take it anymore and introduces herself.

"Hi," she thrusts a hand forward, "I'm Allison, and I moved back yesterday—"

"—oh! That explains why the rumor mill hasn't moved onto you yet! Yes! Thank you!"

Another awkward pause.

"…for moving?" Allison asks.

"Exactly! They can stop talking about the three-ways and foursomes now!"

"I don't—"

"—I'm Cynthia!" she snatches Allison's hand before shaking it wildly. "Wilkes. Cynthia Wilkes, and I'm not the newest transfer anymore!"

* * *

Cynthia calms down, eventually, and they settle into a companionable silence as they wait for the secretary to give them their schedules. She catalogues Allison's brown hair, Disney princess face, and fashion sense before granting Allison with the title of a gorgeous woman. Second to Lydia, of course.

She bets Allison will have boys panting after her within milliseconds of them seeing her. (She has no idea how much money she would have made, had there been an actual bet. She'd be set for life.) She looks down at herself, the slightest bit insecure.

"Allison Argent and Cynthia Wilkes, yes?" the secretary finally calls them. "I have your schedules right here, and I believe you have all the same classes."

Cynthia sighs, wishing she were anywhere else but here. She takes a look at her schedule. The basics, calculus, history, chemistry, literature, mandatory physical education, and an art elective.

"Now, do you need a guide?"


End file.
